Bloody-Minded Money
by Sorge
Summary: Project Freelancer may be gone, but their legacy is far from ended. From beginning to end, this is the story of a ragtag cadre of elite ODST-armor-wearing mercenaries and their quest for vengeance. Their goal? Get revenge and get paid.


The former leader of an ill-fated insurrection sat in silence that belied his pain. The thrumming of the lifeboat's powerful engine washed over him, rattling his armor against the form-fitting black bodysuit that had been the symbol of his allegiance to a cause. Crimson flash on black plates—blood for justice. Now they were just colors. Blood he had in spades, but justice had deserted him.

Grief clawed at his throat, making it hard to swallow. He was a commander without a command now. The woman he loved lay lifeless on the deck, and the men he'd come to trust were gone, destroyed in one cruel sweep. No oath of vengeance could bring them back. If there had been any justice in the galaxy he would have died with them in that room.

He'd been too ambitious in his plans, too arrogant in underestimating his foes. He'd never anticipated an attack on the Longshore facility and his men had paid with their lives. One at a time and by the dozen they'd stepped up to die. Some for the cause, some for their buddies, some for the money, but down to the very last man, they'd died believing in him, waiting for him to spring the master plan that didn't exist. It was on his shoulders, it was his failure as a commander.

The brief battle with the Freelancers was sharp in his memory, vivid in bloodstained hues. Even when he screwed his eyes shut, he couldn't purge it from his mind. From behind closed eyes, he relived the showdown from every angle as a helpless observer. The gunshot, his cry of anguish, the terrific jolt up his arm as his axe found only armor where flesh should be—and the sudden spike of terror as his adversary shrugged off the mortal wound and just kept coming. All the while, he was conscious of C.T. fighting hand-to-hand with her opponent as they danced in brutal choreography. Now she was dead while they lived—injustice.

He rubbed his bloodshot eyes, sinking back in the escape couch. He tried to remember her as she'd been in life, but it all came back to her bloodless face, meeting his eyes with a wordless accusation. It was not the Connie he wanted to remember. He wanted to remember the Connie from before the war, barefoot in the grass with her face rose-tinted in the sunset, back home on Earth when he'd been just a fresh-faced marine and she a promising young university student.

He drew a deep breath through the filter of her helmet, trying to forget the scent of her blood. The helmet didn't smell like his. It smelled like a different wearer and different soap, clean and antiseptic. There was a faint impression of floral fragrance, the kind she'd been wearing that blissful night on New Harmony. Just a brief glimpse of what could have been if there had been any justice at all.

The lifeboat engines were powerful: there were several inhabited planets within his range, and from there he could board a transport to anywhere in the galaxy. He could bury her on some backwater world and take time to mourn. He could start a new life.

Deep down, he knew it wouldn't be that easy. He'd been branded a heretic and a traitor by the same UNSC he'd served so faithfully, and they'd surely be looking for him. What kind of life could he really have? Where could he go that the agents of Project Freelancer couldn't reach? There was really only one course of action that he could pursue: vengeance.

The datacard she'd given him sat dormant in his pocket. He fished it out and held it aloft, peering into its glowing data matrices as though trying to divine its contents. This was it. This was what Connie had died to protect. He knew of other organizations with no love for the UNSC, and with these secrets, he could buy their allegiance. He'd start from scratch, put together a new army and take the fight to the Director. It was a heavy thought, but he was a patient man.

Something bumped him from behind. His helmet drifted past in the zero gravity environment and he instinctively grasped it. He peered thoughtfully into the mirrored visor, seeing himself as she'd seen him. Her helmet looked grim and determined in the reflection. She'd always been stronger—her rage against the Director had been fiercer than his own. But that anger had not been enough—he'd seen it surface in her final moments, trying to will her broken limbs back to action in defiance of death. It had hurt him to see her die in such ugliness. He hoped her soul was at rest wherever it was.

He'd carry on the fight in her stead and finish it for the both of them. As long as he held on to her memory, she didn't feel quite gone. He'd take up her ambition along with her armor, a solution both fitting and practical. As long as he wore the armor, he didn't have to worry about it falling into enemy hands. He'd space her body before he made planetfall—a harsh but pragmatic solution. Her legacy would live on and keep them guessing.

He couldn't bring her back, he couldn't have saved her. But he could at least honor her memory with action. Blood for justice.

* * *

The impact? Crushing. He felt none of it; no pain—not yet, juiced up on adrenaline and military-grade stimulants—just the weight behind the blow and a sensation of weightlessness as his feet forsook the ground. He experienced a feeling of detached disbelief as he realized what had just occurred. An entire truck—lifted and swung like a scythe with no more apparent effort than a he might lift an oil drum. The shadow of the two-ton utility vehicle passed him over like an angel of death, and suddenly he was aware of himself again, tumbling crazily across the pavement in a flopping, disjointed tangle of limbs and viewpoints.

The soldier flung out an armored glove to right himself, and the impact jarred him badly. The pain hit: ribs, broken and bruised. Both arms dislocated. A knee that wouldn't take his weight. He sucked in a panicked breath and almost lost consciousness as the shattered bits of his ribcage pressed against his armor.

Pain. He'd been trained to ignore it, to focus on the mission above all else. He'd been taught techniques: how to disperse the feeling and use it to drive his muscles beyond the point where a lesser man might break. None of it helped.

All he knew was that he hurt—a lot. He bit down on the rubber hydration tube in his helmet to stifle a groan of agony. His eyes darted, his heart rate spiked. He was losing the battle to stay conscious. His training was failing him.

With a keening noise like an animal that no one heard, save himself, the soldier forced himself to his hands and knees, feeling his shoulder pop back into place with a sick noise as he did. Cursing his weakness, he began to crawl. He could hear the noise of fighting, but his eyes refused to focus. He heard the scrape of crossed blades and the dull thud of fists against steel.

Without really knowing why, he crawled toward the sound of fighting like a good marine, each inch of progress a fresh agony. His ODST armor read his vitals and attempted to compensate, contracting and applying pressure over his torso. It was the boost he needed: the will to get up out of the dirt and finish the fight. His people were still fighting—they needed him.

The exertion was tremendous. Rising into a fighting stance in that moment was the hardest thing he'd ever done, and it left him weak in the knees. His head pounded and his vision swam, but he was _up. _His incredibly muscular bare forearms shone with perspiration. This was what he'd honed his body for, pushing the limits of human endurance to become the ultimate embodiment of the special operations warrior, ready to overcome all opponents through brute force and guile.

Until now, he'd never known his match in martial prowess. What he'd seen today shook him to the core. The white-armored soldier with his mirrored visor had the strength of a Spartan with none of the military bearing that made them at least comprehensible. This Freelancer was like a raging animal, a storm of perfect malice in an armored shell.

And now he stood in the way. There was a palpable air of smug spitefulness about the enormous Freelancer as he strode up, totally assured in his victory and clearly savouring the moment. Though both men were alike in physical stature, the Freelancer moved with a ponderous weight that spoke of his immense strength.

To his credit, the soldier did not beg for mercy, nor did he hesitate. Coiling his muscles for the effort, he put his full weight into a single punch, striking out with all his strength. But the giant deflected the blow with ease, catching the soldier's armored gauntlet mid-swing and holding it there. With theatrical slowness, he twisted sadistically and forced the giant soldier to his knees lest his wrist bones be ground to dust.

The pain in his shoulder forced a pained gasp from the soldier's lungs and he began to bleed profusely from both nostrils. His other arm hung limp at his side, frayed tendons and split bones refusing to obey him. In that moment, he realized he'd bitten off more than he could chew, and that he would die. He'd always been the strongest, but here was one stronger.

The Freelancer growled: a deep, throaty rumble of mirth as his fist rose like a guillotine. The soldier lifted up his head defiantly to stare at the place where he imagined the other man's eyes would be. _Do it, _he thought_, do it you freak, you animal. _He sensed that this was the moment in which he was supposed to beg for his life—to do so would probably bring this man no greater happiness. He refused to give him the pleasure. Not a sound escaped his lips even as he was lifted slightly off the ground by his tortured appendage.

The Freelancer cocked his head, seemingly disappointed. The soldier felt the subtle shift in his captor's stance and knew what was coming. His last thought was that he might have trained harder.

* * *

Maine flung the body away like so much rubbish, suddenly disinterested. The hot lust for revenge that had been burning him up only moments before drained like mercury from his veins. He felt a momentary pang of confusion. Like a harried animal uncertain of where to go next, he lingered motionless, staring at nothing. Why had he wanted to do that?

"Excellent work, Agent Maine," the voice in his head purred, and he experienced a feeling of deep satisfaction that wasn't quite his own. "You got your revenge, didn't you?"

Revenge. Yes, that was why. A feeling of warm triumph glowed within him. It had been for revenge. That man had taken something from him.

"I'm afraid we're not done yet," the voice crooned, and he sensed its eagerness though it spoke as though the matter were an inconvenience. Unconsciously, Maine felt his gaze lifted up to where several armored figures fought a pitched melee. He could feel the other focusing in on one of them, Agent Carolina, and he could feel its desire though it tried to hide it. It was was an unclean feeling, and he tried to put it from his mind. It was so easy to do that these days. His mind felt clean and blank, comfortably so.

"Help her, Maine," the voice commanded, jarring him out of his thoughts. "Kill them all. Go!"

The red rage flooded back again, and Maine let it sweep him away, becoming a blank slate, a dynamo of focused emotion. It was so easy not to think, let the other think for him. All he had to do was fight, and he was very good at that.


End file.
